


You're the Right Kind of Sinner

by passing-fanciful (kageygirl)



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alley Sex, F/M, Hand Jobs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-27
Updated: 2014-10-27
Packaged: 2018-02-22 21:01:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,102
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2521691
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kageygirl/pseuds/passing-fanciful
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Last night she went on a first date with him in a pretty pink dress, and tonight she's jerking him off in a dark alley.</p><p>Spoilers for 4x04, "Bella Notte."</p>
            </blockquote>





	You're the Right Kind of Sinner

Gold's car is gone, and the lights are out, but Emma jiggles the pawn shop door handle, just in case. No joy, though--the shop's locked up tight. 

Which is probably just as well--she hadn't _really_ worked out what she was going to say to him about Henry working for him; something about not messing with the kid's head, something somewhere between a polite request and an impolite threat. Maybe with a little more time to think, she can even muster something that sounds thought-out and reasonable.

(Or--not; she'd spent the whole night thinking about asking Killian out, and when she finally did it, she'd been about as smooth as sandpaper.)

She sighs, turning away from the door--and that's when she catches a flicker of movement up the street, vanishing down the mouth of an alley.

And that is just _it_. She's had a long, frustrating, fruitless day of dealing with irritating thieves and unhelpful town records, and she is _done_ playing hide-and-seek with that ice witch.

She's on the move in an instant, drawing her gun as she breaks into a careful jog that minimizes the noise she makes. She gets to the alley in time to see a figure disappear around a corner back there, and she darts down the street and around the corner to where that crossway comes out. 

Peering around the edge of the wall, she sees a silhouette coming toward her, backlit by a dingy, struggling bulb over one of the back doors. In the dim light, she catches a glint of metal--gun? knife? magic freaking _wand_?--and she snaps her own gun up as she squares herself up in front of the alleyway.

"Freeze! Hands where I can see them!"

She hears a breathy sound that might be a laugh, and then the figure's arms carefully go up, showing her one empty hand, and--

"I've only the one, love. I hope that doesn't come as a disappointment."

\--one hook.

"Killian?" 

And just like that, her day--well, night--is looking up.

She stows her gun under her jacket and steps into the dark alley, feeling a smile coming on. Even though they were together for most of the day, she's _missed him_.

They'd spent the rest of the morning investigating the site of Emma's icy automotive ambush, but found no leads. The afternoon had involved a thrilling dive into the town records (Killian actually _is_ surprisingly good at research, it turns out, and their prisoner had even chimed in with a few ideas, possibly out of boredom), but in the end, they still weren't any closer to finding out where "Sara Fisher" might be or how she came to be in Storybrooke.

Killian had been a little quiet, though, a little reserved. Probably watching the PDAs around David, or thinking about whatever happened with his hand; she caught him fiddling with his hook a few times while they paged through property records, adjusting it, as if it weren't sitting quite right. She trusts him; she knows he'll tell her about it, if it's anything important.

But after the date they'd had--hell, after the _everything_ they've had, all this time--Emma's gotten to a place where she's finding it hard to hold herself back around him. No, it's more than that--she doesn't _want_ to.

"Hey," she says, stopping in front of him. "What are you doing here?"

He nods back toward the way he came in. "I'd hoped to have a word with the Dark One about your boy." 

"Really?" she asks, blinking. Something soft and warm blooms in her chest. "You--came here to talk to Gold about Henry?"

"Aye," he says, looking back over his shoulder again. "But it seems he's retired for the evening."

"Yeah, I noticed that, too." 

It was near the end of a big family-plus dinner at Granny's (David and Emma having tag-teamed Killian and Elsa into joining them) that Henry had dropped the bombshell that he was going to be helping out around the pawn shop. Everyone else had cleared out to let her talk to Henry without an audience, quick enough to be comical, if she'd been in a place to appreciate it. Killian offering to walk them home, Mary Margaret accepting with a gleam in her eye that Emma didn't have time to warn him about; it probably meant he was going to get grilled on the date.

But when she and Henry got to the loft, Killian had already left--an errand to run, he'd told her parents--and Emma'd had one of her own.

(They really do think alike, sometime. She doesn't find that as scary as she used to.)

She sighs, shrugging her shoulders. "Trusting him around Henry--it's going to take some getting used to, you know? I know you say he's changed, but--old habits die hard, I guess."

He looks down--fiddling with his hook again--and says quietly, "Indeed they do."

She considers him a moment--half-lit and brooding, dressed like he is, he looks like a tortured rock star, and it does dangerous things to her insides. The "tortured" part is bothering her, though, and she steps closer, stilling his hand by covering it with her own. "Killian?" she asks gently. "Why are you touring Storybrooke's scenic alleys? Something wrong with the sidewalks?"

He stares at their hands for a moment. "As you said, love, old habits." He looks up at her, finally, and gives her the ghost of a smile. "Besides, our icy adversary has shown a penchant for murderous personal threats, so it seemed prudent to deprive her of a tempting target as best I could."

Because he'd all but promised her he'd survive. _For her._ Somehow, that makes the sneaky pirate act both touching and _almost unbearably hot_ , and she draws in a breath to try to steady her suddenly racing heart. She tugs at his jacket sleeve, pulling his hand out from between them, and moves into the open space. "It's true, you know. You _should_ be careful, being out by yourself at night." 

"Look who's talking," he says, and raises an eyebrow at her. "There's no telling what manner of unsavory characters might be skulking about in the dark."

She has to grin at that. His hand comes to rest lightly on her hip as she slides her palms up the front of his jacket. "Well, I am the sheriff. It's my job to investigate unsavory characters." She hooks her thumbs under his lapels, curling her fingers around the new leather. "Thoroughly."

His lips part as he looks down at her, the blue of his eyes drowningly deep. "Swan?" he asks, his voice low and dark, and she sways closer still, all but touching him, his body a trembling line of heat down the front of her body, just a hairs-breadth away.

"I've been waiting to get you alone all day," she murmurs, slipping her fingers behind his neck, brushing the scruff at the corners of his jaw with her thumbs. "Have I told you how much I like your new clothes?"

"Not in so many words, no." She can't read his face well, but his eyes keep drifting to her lips. He's almost unnaturally still, but for the near-imperceptible flexing of his hand over her hip.

"You're right," she whispers, staring at his mouth. "Words are overrated."

Her will to resist gives out, and she closes the distance between them.

The reserve he's been showing all day melts away, his mouth warm and wanting against hers, and she lets herself sink into it, into _him_ , the way she'd been fantasizing about. All day, whenever her mind wandered, she ended up back in the hallway outside her parents' place, and she'd come back to her senses flushed and embarrassed at her easy distraction.

Now, though, her self-consciousness has slipped away, and her self-control is looking to follow it. She presses herself against him, all lean muscle and leather, and he groans, a broken sound almost like pain. The erection pressing into her stomach tells a different story, though, and her blood runs hot at the thought of wringing from him more of those amazing noises. 

She drops a hand down to palm the very respectable bulge in his pants, and his hips rock into it even as he tears his mouth away from hers, his breath harsh and hot on her cheek. "Emma," he pants, his eyes half-lidded, his hand under her jacket, burning through the thin material of her shirt. "What are you thinking, love?"

"Not thinking," she breathes, giving him an open-mouthed grin. "Just feeling."

She glances behind him, then places her free hand on his chest (really nice chest, too; she's going to have to check that out later) and backs him into a recessed doorway, hiding them further from sight of the street. Then she kisses him again, deeper, feels his hand running restlessly over her back, the brace of his hook a solid anchor against her waist.

Almost as intoxicating as kissing him is feeling him hard and ready to go under her hand. She's regretting the fact that she doesn't have any protection on her (bad planning, Emma), but there are so many other things they can do.

(She might have a list in her head. She'll never admit that, though.)

And she really, _really_ wants this, _right now_. And isn't everyone always telling her to seize the moments?

So she pops the button on his pants, and he gasps against her lips. "One thing I really like about these clothes," she says, easing the zipper away as she lowers it. "Easy access."

She brushes her fingers over the velvety smooth length of him, and his breath catches. Then she thumbs over the head of his cock, and he gives a ragged sigh, his hand flat against her back, holding her close.

She sets up an easy rhythm to begin with, stroking him slowly but firmly. He gathers her close against his side, hand contracting spasmodically against her back, and when his harsh breathing settles somewhere close to even, she tightens her hand with a twist over the head of his cock.

His hips jerk forward, and he mutters, "You'll be the bloody death of me, love."

"No dying, remember?" she answers, scraping her teeth over the skin when his neck flows into his shoulder. He gives her that beautiful broken sound again, and she rewards him with a faster stroke and a firmer hand.

"Gods above," he mutters, resting his head briefly against hers. She divides her attention between her hand and his face, watching the play of arousal across his features, the flush seeping across his cheeks and down his neck and chest to hide somewhere under his shirt.

His tongue darts out to wet his lips, and she responds in kind; she's _so_ turned on right now, but she doesn't want to miss a second of this. She's not missing the irony--last night she went on a first date with him in a pretty pink dress and tonight she's jerking him off in a dark alley--but this is them, too, dirty and messy and impulsive.

His body draws tight, the cords in his neck standing out as his head curls forward, his expression almost pained. She speeds her hand more, short sharp strokes over the head of his cock.

When he comes, it's with a shattered groan that seems to come from the very bottom of his soul, his hand almost painfully tight on her back. She gentles him through it, only letting up when he shakes his head, his hips twitching away from her.

She reaches out and wipes her hand on the brick wall outside the recess, and turns her head back to have his hand catch her cheek, drawing her in for a deep, consuming kiss. In her current state, it's almost too much, and when she scrapes her nails over his scalp, he chuckles--

\--and then he pulls her around, so that she's the one being crowded into the doorway.

"Don't worry, darling," he breathes into her ear, his beard scratching at the skin of her neck. "I'd never be so ungentlemanly as to leave a woman wanting."

"Prove it," she shoots back, her voice a little desperate, and his eyes light up, his lips curling up in a grin that makes her knees go weak.

"As you wish," he murmurs, and moves down to mouth at her neck. His hand meanders down the other side of her neck and over her t-shirt, his fingers moving in circling little patterns that heat her skin and shorten her breath, even through the fabric. When he reaches her bra, he traces the edge down over her sternum. Her chest heaves under his hand, and he raises his head to watch her face as his fingertips wander over her lace-covered breast, his explorations tantalizingly vague.

She sucks in a breath, her fingers tightening in his hair, and his tongue runs over his bottom lip. She might've expected him to look smug, but he doesn't, not at all; his face is soft and vulnerable as he watches her. "Killian," she whispers, unable to put words to the complicated feelings tangled up inside her.

He ducks in to kiss her sweetly, even as his thumb rolls over her stiff nipple, and she shivers, her back arching, shoulders pressed into the door behind her.

He keeps her there, fingers playing, blunt nails tormenting her through the fabric, until she's moaning into his mouth, needing _more, god, more_. Then, his hand starts moving again, skating over her ribs, stealing under the edge of her t-shirt. He runs the backs of his fingers over her stomach, his rings an unfamiliar drag that makes her skin jump, and then slips his hand lower, cupping her though her jeans, pressing firmly against the seam.

"Fuck," she breathes into his mouth, eyes closed, her hips jerking into his hand.

"All in good time, love," he murmurs back, and she feels it when he tugs her fly open and slides his hand inside.

Her eyes pop open as his fingers sink through her folds, teasing at her clit with the same little circles he drew over her chest, and she breathes out a harsh little whimper that she's too far gone to be embarrassed by. 

His hand works its way further down, the tip of his middle finger slipping into her entrance as he grinds his palm against her. He doesn't have a lot of room to work with, her jeans too tight, but it doesn't seem to be impeding him all that much; she can feel her orgasm starting to build as she rides his hand, his other wrist behind her back, helping her along by pulling her closer as she rocks into him. Her free hand, the one that's not all but fisted in his hair, she brings to her breast, squeezing and rubbing.

He bends down and mouths at her other breast through her shirt, talented lips tugging at her nipple, his palm kneading at her in an insistent rhythm, and she comes apart, choking on his name and letting him take most of her weight as she shudders in his grip.

She pulls him back up so that she can wrap her arms around him and pant into his neck. "Wow," she mutters, and giggles into his neck. She presses a kiss there, then flicks her tongue out to taste his skin, salty, with a metallic tang from the chain around his neck.

"Well said," he says, a hint of laughter in his voice. She raises her chin to glare at him (probably a pathetic effort, given the contented pleasure she's still basking in), but he catches her mouth in a kiss, gentle and cherishing.

It sets something fluttering in her chest. When he eases back, she can feel her cheeks heating up in a way that has nothing to do with the (really _really_ good) public sex they just had.

She busies herself putting her clothes back in order, hoping the darkness gives her cover while her blush fades. There's a damp mouthprint on her t-shirt, and she looks pointedly at him while zipping her jacket up over it.

Only to see him drape a handkerchief over his left arm and rub his palm across it, eyebrow raised in response, and now, _now_ she's blushing over the "public sex" thing. Way to be a pillar of the community, Sheriff Swan.

"We should--probably do that in a bed next time," she says, irony curling up the corners of her mouth. "At the very least, _indoors_."

"'Next time,'" he repeats softly, and it's got to be the near-darkness that's making him look almost sad. "Emma--"

Her phone rings, startling her, and she gives a little laugh.

"I'm just going to appreciate that the timing was _not_ as bad as it could have been," she says, pulling her phone from her pocket. "Hello?"

It's David--two minutes earlier and that would have been _unimaginably_ awkward--asking her if she can grab some milk on the way home; he's not sure how well the carton in the fridge survived the blackout. "Will you be home soon?" he asks, with clear Killian-related suspicion in his voice. 

She can't look at Killian, she can't, she _can't_ , or she will lose her shit and possibly never get it back. "Yeah, I'll be there shortly," she says, and manages to keep her voice mostly innocent. (Mostly.)

After she hangs up, she does look at him, and catches him scratching behind his ear. "I have to stop at the grocery store on the way home," she says, and he looks up at her. "Can I give you a lift to Granny's?"

He shakes his head. "Thank you, but I'll not delay your return," he says, and smiles faintly. "And I feel like taking in the air before retiring."

"All right," she says. She steps in to kiss him, keeping it brief with a monumental effort. Before opening her eyes, she has to take a deep breath. "Good night, Killian."

"Good night, Emma," he says, quietly.

She checks before sneaking back out of the alley, to make sure no one's around. It looks deserted, but Killian hesitates before following her. Probably for the best, anyway, to avoid the appearance of doing--well, exactly what they _were_ doing. 

She has only a few minutes before the grocery store closes, though, so she takes off, leaving him behind in the dark.


End file.
